


Letters

by Lyndee_Rose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Letters, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyndee_Rose/pseuds/Lyndee_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of letters to Sherlock after the fall. Starts a little over a month post-Reichenbach and goes until just after season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 24, 2011

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind this is the first story I've posted here. Hope you like it! :)

August 24, 2011

Dear Sherlock:

 

Oh, goodness, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Ella told me that writing letters to you would help, even if you would never see them. To be honest, it seems a bit ridiculous, but I guess I’m doing it anyway. What can it hurt?

It’s been a little over a month since you jumped, and I still can’t quite believe that you’re really gone. It’s like I still expect you to text me about a case you’re on that you need me to do some research about. Or come walking into the room and declare that you’re bored. It just doesn’t seem fair for that life to be over.

The first week was the worst. I woke up every morning expecting to hear you playing your violin, or running around trying to solve your latest case. But there was nothing. Only the silence that kept screaming at me that you were gone. Blaring in my ears shouting at me, “He’s never coming home! Stop waiting for him to come through the door.”

And then, of course there were the times that I could swear I heard your footsteps, your voice. But then I would turn around expecting to see you standing there, donning a trench coat and ready to solve the next murder, and see nothing. Nothing but an empty flat

Needless to say, I moved out of 221B as soon as possible. I stayed with Harry for a week until I got my own place sorted out. Now I live on a quiet street just outside of London. The neighbors are nice enough, and the rent isn’t too terrible. It’s a bit quiet for my liking, but after the past few years with you I suppose anywhere I go will be like that.

It’s strange how you turned my life completely upside-down. Never before did I think that someone could do that to me. But, of course, you had to come in and prove me wrong. In a very Holmsian way, too.

But you didn’t just effect my life. I don’t think that Mrs. Hudson will ever be able to clear out our old flat. You were like a son to her, did you know that? You must have. The way she babied you, it would be hard to miss. I don’t think the poor woman has stopped crying for the past month.

I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to cry. Don’t get me wrong, the feeling is still there. The feeling of breaking, of being torn limb from limb with nothing left behind but bits of a man I don’t know if I have the will to glue back together. But no matter what I do, what I feel, I can’t let the tears fall. You were a part of me, and one doesn’t cry when a part of themselves dies. They simply pick up what they can, and struggle to move on. Which is what I endeavor to do.

I guess that’s all I have to say, really. I’m not sure if I will be continuing this, although I do have to admit that it sort of helped, even if it was only in a small way. We’ll just see how it all works out.

 

Your friend,  
John Watson


	2. January 17, 2012

January 17, 2012

Dear Sherlock:

 

I have to say, things have gotten slightly better since August. The night after I last wrote to you, I got my first full night of sleep since your death. I also was able to go through some of our old case records without the burning sense of nostalgia that comes with the very thought of you. Ella insists that it was because I had finally found a healthy way to channel my feelings. Whatever the reason, I thought I ought to write to you again. 

Christmas and New Year were rather dull this year. I spent most of that week at Harry’s flat with her and Clara. They’ve decided to give their relationship another go, and honestly, I think that it’s helping Harry. We did the usual things that everyone does at that time of year; stuff you’ve always found useless and trivial. It was fun, though, and nice to see Harry again after so long.

Lestrade also stopped by a couple of days ago. He wanted me to go and examine a murder scene that he and the others were stumped on. I refused at first but then figured, why not? In the end, I didn’t last more than five minutes at the scene. I was able to give them cause of death, but very little beyond that. What can I say? I’m no Sherlock Holmes.

Unfortunately for Scotland Yard, that statement is true for just about everyone. I can foresee a lot of unsolved cases over there now that you’re out of the picture. Or, at least, cases solved with less efficiency and in double the time.

Speaking of Scotland Yard, you should see what’s happened to Anderson. The poor bloke has gone absolutely out of his mind with guilt. He’s convinced that you’re still out there somewhere. I wish he was right. Heck, there was a point where I thought he might be. But he’s not. He never will be.

Besides, why would you? There would be absolutely no point to it. Did you just decide that the rest of us were boring so you decided to fake your own death and become a recluse? No. I don’t think even you would stoop to such levels. Somewhere in that head of yours you had to have known that you needed people, even if it was only to wait for them to provide you with the next murder to solve.

But this begs another question: Why did you do it? Why jump at all? If not to escape from the daftness of society, then why? I don’t believe that you jumped because of what other people were saying about you. You were always above what anyone else thought of you. Why would then be any different? 

And if you were actually a fake? No. No, that doesn’t make any sense either. I saw you, and what you were like. The way you would poor yourself over books and documents, devote yourself so wholeheartedly to your cases, even go so far as to put your own well-being aside to solve someone else’s mystery. No, not even someone desperate for public recognition would go to lengths like that to sell a story. You were you, and you were real.

But then why? I could drive myself insane trying to find the answer. The truth is that it really doesn’t matter. Knowing why won’t change the outcome, so why would I let myself go crazy trying to figure it out? What I really need to do is let it go. Accept what happened and move on. And, yes, it was Ella who gave me that advice in the first place, but despite what you seem to think of her, I’m pretty sure she’s right about this one.

Anyways, if you were to read this you would probably scold me for getting too philosophical or whatever. But I guess that doesn’t matter, either. You’ll never see it so I guess that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about.

 

Your friend,  
John Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave your feedback! I know I'm not the best writer, so constructive criticism is welcome :)


	3. July 6, 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! If I'm being completely honest, I totally forgot about this thing until last week (over a year and a half after I last updated...oops). But I found some of my old outlines and figured I'd start up again. I know it's kind of short, but here it is!

July 6, 2012

Dear Sherlock:

 

It’s been a year. An entire 365 days since you jumped off that rooftop.

I’ve had a lot to think about these past couple of days. So much has happened in the past year it hardly seems real. I’ve gone from running around London chasing serial killers to working overtime in the clinic just to avoid going home to an empty flat. I now spend my days filling out paperwork instead of blogging about your latest cases. My life has been completely turned around.

Sarah invited me out to dinner last night. It wasn’t anything romantic; she really just wanted to see how I was doing. I told her I’m fine and that I’m managing, but the truth? This year has been the hardest of my life. I’ve felt beaten, defeated, broken. In some ways—scratch that, in a lot of ways—I’m nothing but a shell of the man I used to be, a fraction of my old self.

When I met you, it was like some hidden part of me became unveiled. Cliché, I know. But it’s true. And when you fell, it was like that part of me died right along with you.

One year.

In some ways, I can feel the time like a heavy weight on my shoulders plaguing me day after day; a constant reminder that you are no longer with me.

In other ways, it seems like it was just yesterday that I stood outside St. Bart’s pleading with you to come down, to back away; just yesterday that I had to bury you; just yesterday that I asked you to give me one more miracle, to come back.

But it seems that we’re out of miracles.

 

Your friend,  
John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome!


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